


Prologue and End

by Lachanophobic



Category: Dragon Ball
Genre: Adopted Children, Alternate Universe, Angry Sex, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Jealousy, Requited Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:42:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24287572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lachanophobic/pseuds/Lachanophobic
Summary: Her family business is on the verge of bankruptcy and all she can do is sit on the sidelines and watch.The moocher who unrightfully stole her place as the next heir of Capsule Corporation, or who people call herbrother, is constantly being praised.However, after a shocking request from 'their' father, Vegeta changes radically… he starts showing a side that Bulma is incapable of believing he possesses.Time is ticking and they have to make a decision: save their company or give into desire.
Relationships: Bulma Briefs/Vegeta
Comments: 114
Kudos: 151





	1. Chapter 1

Flip. Flip. Flip. Flip.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

The sounds around her are like a metronome for her body. Every turn of a page makes her shoulders squeeze against her neck. Every tick of the clock makes a muscle in her leg jump a little. 

"Here she was five. Looked like a little boy, didn't she?" Her mother is at it again, whenever their company organises a party, she must show to every single guest decades old family albums. Same story every time. No matter where she seeks refuge, that woman promptly finds her and forces her to sit down on the sofa for long, boring hours, reminding to everyone how cute was her naked tushy during her first bath.

_If_ that was the only problem! 

"Look at this _handsome_ scowl. He was already a lady killer at six." 

"Or just a killer…" she mutters, gaining a nervous titter from the old woman. 

The major issue in her life has always been the one kid in that picture. A _disaster_ that appeared at their front door no longer than two decades ago, during a thunderstorm, half-dead and bleeding in the arms of her father. 

Kissed by the most wrecked wheel of fate, sanctified by every soul on his path, lauded and applauded as if his very existence were a miracle wanted by Gods… the one they made king of _her_ empire… a thorn in her side. The same aloof demon that now - she's sure of it - is sightseeing her discomfort from somewhere among the shadows. Her dearest _adopter brother._

Look… look how their hosts take delight into observing, contemplating, _adoring_ ... the miniature form of what today is the reincarnation of Hell on Earth. " _Oh, so adorable!_ " One says. " _Let me remind you that I have a daughter, Ms. Briefs… if you know what I mean"_ another says, and while _she says that, Bulma hopes_ \- oh she _does_ hope! - that the sumptuous string of beads around that woman's chubby neck will choke her soon. 

"And where is the _Prince_ tonight? I haven't seen him around," the same nosy fatty remarks. The graceless and screeching sound of her voice is as grating as referring to that eyesore as a prince.

Bulma is just waiting for the cue. Literally _breathing_ for the moment in which her mother will turn her focus on her just to ask what she obviously doesn't know. Steeling her nerves, both her gloved hands smother the ridiculous pastel puff that's her gown. She's particularly proud of her horrendous choice. Picking crazy dresses that make her look like a sorry party favor has become another past time to remind her family who truly deserves to stand out in that suffocating excuse of a house. 

Still, it doesn't work for the hosts. Doesn't matter if she looks like a clown, if her skirts are almost pussy-showing or if she drowns in layers of tulle mixed with organdy… she'll always be just _the beautiful doll, the_ _graceful future wife of some weighty minister_ , _the eye candy_ for sore old eyes. 

And oh no, this is no different than eating fermented soybeans - the flavor is obscene, but everyone will keep eating it because it's _healthy._ She's a rotten bean, and particularly proud of how tasteless she is. 

Strangely enough her mother doesn't ask today. Above her voice raises the ill-timed tune of a piano sonata. Probably she'd the only one that translates it as a cacophony. Because every other head in the room turns at the sound. Her fingers dig in the gown, crumpling it. She doesn't want to raise her gaze on that stupid old piano, but her instinct tends to prevail more often than not and betray her when she's this nervous.

When she does, he's there. Back straight as an arrow, clad in the best soirée's attire in the room and relaxed as if the world belongs to him and just him. Under the lights of the chandelier the swaying movements of his spine seem studied to capture every glitter that falls on his profile. And she knows why is like that. He studied every small gesture to perfection in order to impress, send mouths agape, mark the difference between _before_ and _now_. Fill the gap that nobody knew was there before he created the illusion. His fingers move swiftly, with the slightest modicum of effort. The truth is that he sucks. He doesn't have the slightest idea of what he's doing, he just learns it by memory and executes. With just one goal: steal the audience. 

She wants to leave, but will not. She will stay rooted there like weed and pretend she doesn't care, that he's just a speck of dust on the tip of her pumps. Because that is all he is. She won't stoop so low as to acknowledge his presence. And thus, she will follow the pace of his fingers on the tiles, the rhythm of his lies and counter what it is to come, as usual.

The ticking of the clock in the distance grows stronger to her ears. Much stronger than the whispered gasps of the guests, much stronger than the hand of her mother falling on top of hers as if to keep her grounded from exiting the scene. Much stronger than the cacophony buzzing in her head. 

She counts it in her head, until it marks midnight. At midnight the clock chimes and that man's eyes veer for a fraction. 

In that fraction their gazes meet, and again, she's the only one seeing the phantom of mirth growing restless across the room, in the bottomless inked pit of his eyes. She straightens her back too, conveying her lukewarm disinterest through the biggest yawn she can summon. 

That subtle moment is like a cup of gold dripping hot all over her. It's a satisfying feeling, seeing the slightest tick of imperfection on his smoothed lips. He looks away and she relaxes her shoulders.

What a liar.


	2. Chapter 2

Honestly, heels should be banned from the existence of every woman. Especially from _hers._ Pretty, glittering calf-eating demons that she's currently carrying in her hand; whilst running like a thirsty woman under the dim lit porch and toward the indoor garden of the house. The plant of her feet stings against the cold ground, and it's just when the concrete finally turns into a soft carpet of grass that she stops.

"Oh god…" she moans, twisting her neck to pop some muscles and curling every toe "thank you." A nightly wind caresses her bare nape, tousling the short strands of hair that now tickle at her cheek and send pleasurable chills up her spine. 

This is what she's been waiting for all evening: the chirping of crickets, the lazy gurgling of water in the central fountain and the swish of green under her feet. The moment she can finally let herself go, slowly dipping into a sitting position. That bulky gown she's wearing deflates under the weight of her arms, letting out a tired whisper in unison with her sigh. 

The ugly pumps are rapidly discarded somewhere on the ground, while she lays completely down; spread-eagled on the cool grass and closes her eyes. What's left of the party is just a trail of mixed perfumes: some expensive cologne, the nasty, yet delicate smell of smoked trout and beluga's caviar… Oh, and how can she forget those nostalgic, mephitic cigars her father adores? 

It's like they're playing a game of pretend. Hosting big shindigs just to masquerade their rapidly declining wealth. The truth is that Capsule Corporation is no different than a beached fish struggling to breathe into a puddle of stagnant water… and Vegeta is the bait to attract the best bidder for a merger. Nobody understands that he's not necessary, that she'd know how to keep the company afloat. If only he had stayed out of the picture. If only…

Her trembling fingers grab a handful of grass, ripping it from the soil. There is not a day that goes by in which she doesn't regret what she has become, in order to not let this fake, familiar harmony collapse. Sacrificing what she is, what she wants… for some _stranger_ casually thrown in her life. 

And for what? For… what? For small change. For a brand, a stupid moniker. Because the day Vegeta was adopted in their family, they also inherited _his social status._ From the day he came, her family has tossed the pride of the Briefs in the fucking trash in order to keep him under the lights; to keep the word _prince_ alive and everything sound like a fairytale. 

_Bullcrap_. 

Such a bunch of bullcrap.

She gets up sitting again, slapping down the irksome, billowy creases of the dress out of her way and while doing so, she catches a detail that wasn't there before. It's right in front of her, projected on the grass: a warm quadrangular glow of light that designs a window, within that, at its center stands out a dark silhouette that seems to want to engorge half of the garden. 

Her head snaps up and she catches the last person she wanted to see sitting on the window sill, his nude back leans against a corner. One leg swings in the void, like a subtle tail and the loose, black sweatpants he wears leave visible just the instep of his bare foot. He's watching her, like he was doing in the living room a few hours ago. The only difference is that his gaze is insistent now, firmly placed on her, penetrant and bold. Unreadable. 

And forces her to swallow back her opening line, beating her to the punch.

"Come up," that's all he says, jerking his chin inside his room, with a razor-sharp and inflexible timbre, just like his eyes; it sounds patronizing even when he keeps it low. 

"Come down if you have something to say." She retorts, stiffing and getting up from her comfortable place, that has now turned on various degrees of discomfort. 

"You have five minutes." He doesn't listen to her, more like, he's used to not listen to anybody. In Vegeta's little, twisted world, probably, everyone looks like a servant.

"And you have all the eternity to wait for me." She doesn't act when she's cool and unbothered, she's so used to this that she could write a book about how many times this exact scene has happened. The ending would be boring, though. Being ignored is what that conceited being can't stand the most and she gladly give him that, rather than stooping to his level. With a hand, she shakes away the remnants of grass from her pixie cut and turns on her heels. 

"You'll _jet_ here." His punchy, cold sarcasm makes her shoulders tense backwards as if the tip of a dagger had just stabbed the bone right between them. 

"Aren't you… _"_ she bits her bottom lip to keep unnecessary poison to seethe into her words. Instead, she reins in her emotions, turning slightly over her shoulder with a crooked smile "a bit too conceited for your own go-" 

He's making something twirl around his index finger. It twinkles in the night every time the chamber lights hit it.

She has a bad feeling about it. Unconsciously, her hand raises at the height of her collar. _It's gone._

Her mouth opens and closes twice, it feels like her carotid has been severed.

"Back…" Bulma starts, her eyebrows draw at the center of her forehead, furrowing with anger. " _Give it back_." Her whisper is a warning.

"Come up." He says again, stopping the motion to jerk and catch the pendant in his hand.

"How did you get it…" 

"Come up." He repeats. "And you'll know." 

A shaky, livid breath leaves Bulma's lips. At the same moment he goes inside, closing the window behind him.

She has no other choice. 

\---

The door is ajar and Bulma is hesitating in front of it. It is so frustrating that she has to put up with his childish games in _her house._ Before, at least they used to just ignore each other and pretend neither of them existed. Both of them have been trained all their life to become the very flagships of society. As a kid, Vegeta was a taciturn sociopath. He refused public displays and never took part in celebrations, whereof she was the boutonniere. But everything changed the more that brat got used to his effective role in the family. 

Soon, sooner than she imagined; all the eyes that were previously focused on her started to turn in his direction, towards the heir of Capsule Corporation. And as she started to realize that she was being pushed back... he changed, becoming spoiled and crass, egocentric and dictatorial. 

But still, they never accepted each other as a family or human beings, altogether. She was fine with that. The scar left by his stepping up allowed her to concentrate her thoughts on her beloved engineering. The news of her inventions circled the globe and made Bulma Briefs a star in the firmament of scientists. She was free, she felt free. 

Until her ideas started to get pilfered by other companies. The faith in her employees slowly faded away, leaving her to produce her projects alone. But even so… in a way or another, someone always managed to propose the ideas before her. Until she stopped… sharing. All of her ideas, all of her blueprints never left her lab again. 

For that reason, Capsule Corporation began to sink in the pits of debts. And even if her father continued to produce their most famous product, in the last decade many other competitors came up with lousy and cheaper alternatives morphing their exclusive brand into _one of the many._

At that though her teeth grit hard. One side of her blames Vegeta for it. Because having somebody to blame makes things less painful and miserable than simply accepting her own faults. She's too stubborn to stop playing dumb. 

"Come in." 

That grating voice beckons her with the confidence of a smooth operator and if it wasn't for that pendant, she'd simply turn tails on him. But when it comes to something that belongs to her she's no coward. For that simple reason she enters the room, soundless. 

It's not the first time she steps in here, and unfortunately won't be the last. It's dark now. He purposely switched off the lights to scare her. He's standing against the window, she spots his figure immediately, immersed in the shadows. 

The moonlight traces on the wall the unnatural symmetry of his hair. She always laughed at it. 

"Are you satisfied? Have you affirmed your power now?" She murmurs, falsely laconic. She's not scared of him, but his presence is overbearing. When he stands still like that, looking at her like a lifeless puppet on a shelf, it gives her goosebumps. His room is almost empty, except made for a bed and a nightstand. Sometimes she imagines him as some extraterrestrial individual that doesn't need sleep. Or maybe a project of her father. The lack of emotion in his eyes is unnatural, especially when he keeps his face low-angled, slightly dipped forward… like now. 

She hides a trembling arm behind her back, strolling in the room as if it were routine. "W-what's with the darkness and the silence? Are you going to murder me, Vegeta?"

"Preposterous." He finally detaches his back from the window, moving a few steps forward. "You're not worth the price." 

She feels herself gather air in her lungs. The intake is so noisy that he must have heard it too. _Calm down,_ She chides herself, _he's just trying to push your buttons._

"Good. In that case you won't mind giving back what you stole, so I can take my leave." The muscles in her neck tense, but she ignores them.

"Come and get it." He stretches forward his arm, letting the pendant hang on the tip of his finger. 

God. She's so sick of his wretched games. She's so sick of the way he pretends to push her around. 

"Let's cut the chase. What do you want?" Something in her guts tells her to just get over with this and snatch back the ill-gotten gains and shout out all that she hasn't said in years, to his face. Her pride, though, imposes her to keep her aloofness and not let him get to her.

"I want you to do the only thing I've been asking since the beginning." 

It's late and she's sleepy. The only thing _she wants_ is to get back her microchip and leave this room. Good. She walks towards him with all the determination she can muster but before she can snatch the pendant from his finger, her plan fails. He's fast, and grabs her arm before she can reach the stolen good, yanking her. 

She still feels like falling when her wide eyes stare at Vegeta on top of her. Her back adheres to the mattress and she can feel the pressure of Vegeta's knee between her legs. It's in that moment that she realizes what's happening and all the blood drains from her face. 

The stinging awareness of his fingers strangling her wrist on top of her head replaces shock and fear with a stronger emotion. Anger. "Let me go… you son of a bitch." She feels fire in her belly, fire in her limbs and heart. 

"That's more like it." The surly sarcasm in his voice doesn't match his serious face. 

Anxiety starts to mount rapidly in her body and her control slips away. "More like wh… are you nuts? I said _let me go."_ She trashes, trying to free herself from his steely grip.

"Stay still." 

His other hand moves along her hip, ruffling up her gown. 

"If… if this is a joke it's not funny!" She never realized how strong he is. The more she fights against his vise, the more his fingers dig into her flesh. "Let me go!" She bends her knees and tries to kick him in the stomach, but again, he catches her calf, running his palm on her skin until it reaches her foot, taking a hold of it. 

"Ow! Owowow! It hurts, motherfucker! Don't touch the-" it's too late when she realizes she's fully sitting and that her arm is free.

What...in the...

He gets up too, stretching away for a moment toward the nightstand. The next thing she sees is a little box in his hand.

She's totally lost now and can just stare dumbfounded as Vegeta rips off the lid of the box with his teeth, extracting a couple of band-aids from it. 

Wait.

Band… aids? 

He moves her leg under his armpit, forbidding her to move away. And just when he places the first patch on her wounded feet, everything connects. 

"Did you… arrange all of this setup just… for this?" 

His black eyes flick to her just a second, and she can swear he just glared at her. 

It's difficult to process what goes on in his head. And she knows that it's useless to ask the source, he won't give her answers. All she can do right now is watch him. As he attentively works on her scratches, his statuary expression never changes. It's like his face was molded to be a perennial scowl. Under a natural light, it's even more menacing.

A sudden quake of annoyance makes her want to stop him. "I don't need this from you." 

"I don't care what you need." He turns to her again, and she can only read the truth in what he says. 

Something she already knew, but that somehow… he never vocalized before. It stings.

Once he's done he lets her leg flop back on the bed and standing up throws the pendant at her. Bulma catches it, and at the same moment he turns his back to her.

For a moment, she can't help but to keep staring at his back. She doesn't get him... and... as much as she doesn't want to, a part of her still wishes to crack his skull open to see what's inside of it. 

"Now get out." 

This is what she loathes the most. What makes her body shiver and blood run fast in her veins. This attitude. This monopolizing behavior.

"I'm not your plaything!" She hisses, getting up abruptly and stomps her feet on the ground. It hurts. But she doesn't care.

"Don't disgrace this company any further. Every faux pas you make sullies my name."

Slowly, her mouth parts open in a bitter smirk.

"So this is what it was about. _Your name_. You called me to remind me of my place. Like a true, well-trained overlord. My deepest apologies _my prince,_ but I give zero fucks about your name. If twenty years didn't teach you that… well, you're a lost cause." She's struggling to keep her temper at bay. She wants to punch him so hard. "Now… **if you'll** **excuse me**."

Bulma struts out of the room and the slamming of the door behind her back, hides the sound of Vegeta's fist hitting the wall. 


	3. Chapter 3

Meal time, in this house, is the longest and mundanest moment of the day _. It must also be a stupid tradition passed down from middle ages_ , she thinks sourly. They've got this central, wooden table of biblical length. You barely see the other person right in front of you because it's always decorated with grotesque centerpieces. Today is the turn of a marble bust of one of their ancestors. It vaguely resembles her father. Bulma bends a bit to observe the statue from the side, arching a sceptical brow at the power-to-weight ratio of the two objects standing on top of the other. 

Probably, the bust is empty inside. In no way such an old and scrawny table, that still bears the scars of centuries old people eating upon it, could sustain that weight. Still, all this trying hard to pretend they're wealthy as they were before, makes her retch. Considering they had to hire maidens and servants for a one night event just the other day, tonight the one who is serving food is none other than her mother. 

She knows nothing about cuisine, so usually she makes up for the barely edible food with radiant smiles and versicolored clothes; hoping they're enough to distract their moribund gastrointestinal system from kicking the bucket just yet. 

Blowing off a cerulean curl from her face, she sets her gaze on the petulant parent, which is also the only other soul in the dining room besides her. The _men_ in her family are vampires; they both suck the blood of this house in a way or another. So they don't really need to eat. However, her father comes upstairs from the underground labs to honor the tradition with his presence. He doesn't do much, just sits there and reads scientific papers, sometimes consumes wine. When his beloved wife tries to force some food on his plate, he's fast to flee. Their love is blind when it comes to showing it off, but apparently gains back all it's diopters behind shutters. 

Still, they're kind of cute. They never forget to kiss each other's cheek every time one of them enters a room or is within arm's reach, and her dad makes sure to always leave a little present on the table for when she wakes up. Whether it's just a flower or a crazy piece of junk. _It must be nice,_ she sighs, placing her chin on top of her crossed arms on the table, while she spies the two from behind the crazy centerpiece. 

"Honey, straighten up that back. No man likes hunched ladies," her mom twitters, holding a tray of suspicious food between chest and arm. 

"G _ood_." She smirks, "because I need no man." 

Her parents exchange a preoccupied look, but she's used to it. Refusing to marry, which is her sacrosanct right, doesn't sit well with the expectations of a well-endowed family. Especially in their current situation. But what do they care? They have their _Vegeta_ , after all. They can marry him off to a pretty daughter-of-a-magnate dripping with jewels and uncork a bottle of fine champagne at the wedding. Granted that she'll give him access to her bank coordinates after getting to know that her Prince is, in fact, a scam; both in name and flesh. 

Her wrist is still prickling with the sensation of his fingers wrapped tight around it, prickling in the worst possible way. She made sure to peel off every band-aid he placed on her skin and walk around barefooted, to show him she needs no caregiver. Fuck off! Him and his fake _consideration._

She sticks her fork into a piece of meat she didn't even notice had been placed under her nose, and lifts up the whole veal shank. 

"Bulma!" Her mother reproaches.

"Let me take it on the food at least, since I'm not going to eat it." 

"You're going to eat that, because it's leftovers from the party and we spent _a lot_ on those." Her mother is truly beautiful when she stands proud and tall in front of the table wearing a black sheath dress whilst holding a ladle. She's trying hard, really hard not to show them how much she suffers from behind bereft of luxury. Bulma doesn't blame her for missing it, she's grown bathed in gold and brands too. 

"Sorry," She admits, lowering her gaze and placing the meat back on the plate, "I'll eat now." Bulma can't do much but take a hold of her poise and feign etiquette even if it's not really necessary. It's not just for show, she reminds herself, but also to keep up the morale.

"Oh, Vegeta." 

Just hearing _that_ name makes Bulma's skin crawl. Her gaze moves fast toward the entrance of the dining room, spotting the black sheep immediately; at whom she glares. _Why is he here?_ He never sets foot in the dining room, let alone consume a meal with them. Usually, he's too occupied _'summoning servants of hell from his closet'_ to mingle with mortals. 

But he's acting like it's common routine for him. Without even asking he takes up the seat reserved for the head of the family, aka her father's place, dragging the chair on the floor and plopping on it as if his attendance were some worldly event. 

His gaze falls on her just briefly, then on her fork; his mouth twists in a repulsed grimace. 

"Now that you're both here, we can talk business." Her father announces, dragging all the eyes in the room on him. 

"Wait, _business_?" She asks, her back suddenly stiffening. An uncomfortable weight sets at the mouth of her stomach, it's a bad omen.

Nothing good comes from _business_ that has to have both her and Vegeta around the same table at once. It never happened. It should keep not happening.

The younger man of the two doesn't seem surprised, on the contrary, his stance is unrealistically over-relaxed. Does he know something? She can't help but run her gaze between Vegeta and her father. Anger and frustration start to mount in her chest, making it swell with faster breaths. 

"At the party, I've had the occasion to talk with many businessmen interested in our company…" 

"No!" She slams both her hands on the table, standing up abruptly and making the chair rock on itself until it crashes on the floor. "Dad, you can't sell Capsule Corporation."

The old man rubs the bridge of his nose, sweat starts to bead his forehead. "Dear, we're hitting the bottom of the barrel. Our financial situation is dreadful, not to use another term…"

"Poverty? That's the word you're looking for? And _you,"_ she turns sharply to Vegeta, "weren't you going on about not dishonoring _names_ just yesterday? Are you okay with your name being taken down by another company?" Oh no, it's overflowing… all the feelings she has been trying to lock down for ages are coming out in a rushing stream. Her barking is too loud and grows louder also in her head, overshadowing common sense. 

"I want to hear what are our odds, what do we have to lose…" His fingers hatch under his chin, and his eyes grow sharp, twinkling with interest "and gain from an eventual merger." Then, the same gaze slips in her direction, hard and cold, "Also, _I'm not_ in the habit to go nuts over simple words." 

She grinds her teeth, feeling suddenly over-conscious of her excessive reaction. 

"The president offered to buy half of our quotas for forty million zeni, in exchange we keep our brand and the copyright on it…" Her father interjects.

Sounds too easy. She wrinkles her nose.

"But?" She and Vegeta speak in unison, but she doesn't bother to give it relevance this time.

"But there's one condition," he sighs, "and this is when you two come into play. Know that I just wish you to think about this, I'm against resorting to…"

"It's an arranged marriage, right?" Her own words sound like chalk against a chalkboard. "Which of us must take the axe?" She didn't expect such a poor feedback from her heart. It's like she was just waiting to hear those words from the short glance she witnessed earlier from her parents.

In the corner of her vision, Vegeta wouldn't seem affected as well, if it wasn't for the additional crease on his ever frowning, spacious forehead. 

"The son of the president seems quite smitten with you, Bulma. He asked his father to introduce you sometime. I know this feel too rushed-" 

This time, the sound of a chair that falls off comes from the most unexpected side of the room. The look on her parents' face reflects pretty much the same wide-eyed, spooked expression on Vegeta's face. She doesn't know if he's disoriented by the fact he actually got up after reproaching her emotional outburst or the news… and if it's the news, Bulma fails to see a connection between that and the unwarranted reaction. 

After that, he just sits back, turning his face away and gesturing for her father to go on. 

What the hell just happened? No. There are more pressing matters at hand. Like… _a random boy that apparently fell head over heels for her and used a merger as an excuse to get to marry her._

"This is insane," she comments dryly, "I mean, _smitten_ by what? Was he at the party? Did I see him? Well… is he at least decent looking?" 

"He was at the party," her father confirms, lighting up a cigarette. "However, from what his father says, he's quite shy around the ladies."

" _Pathetic,_ " Vegeta comments, and the hint of vitriol in his voice sounds so uncharacteristic that Bulma thinks she might have imagined it. "Is this why you called me here? To discuss frivolous hooks up with spineless men? How do I fit in this idiotic conversation?"

Now Bulma is definitely taken light years aback. Who's this man? Talking back so easily with such a crude and sloppy slur? Where's the Prince that sat at the same table a few moments ago? The pompous but detached kid who's been living under their same roof for twenty years? 

Her father too, seems uncomfortable at being referred to so poorly. However, he dismissed his shock in favor of business and says "you are the future heir of Capsule Corporation, Vegeta. Seeing to bureaucratic affairs and carrying them through is your duty." He explains it as he'd do a forgetful kid, but Vegeta doesn't budge, on the contrary, he stiffens and grows restless. 

"My task is to see fruitful affairs to completion. Not to take part in this teenage farces!" He raises his voice, and his palms are slamming on the table like she did before him a few moments ago. What… is… happening?

"I'm out of here." 

He moves to storm out of the room, but not before flashing her the most confusing look she's ever seen since she knows him. Anger? Frustration? Embarrassment? She can't discern it.

Everyone runs behind Vegeta, forgetting - of course - that's _she_ is the one being sacrificed here.

But again… what was that?!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Lady_Red for betaing the chapter! 💕


	4. Chapter 4

Their private bathhouse opens to a second inner garden. It's well-manicured. The gardener refused to leave when her father has been forced to make cuts to the personnel. So now he's working for a few bucks, content to just maintain the green oasis of Capsule Corporation. 

It's really awkward to see such a big guy knelt among flowers. He's bald and muscular and has lived with them for the longest time. She's sure he was there even before she was born, but she can't trust such early memories. He's also the only one with whom Vegeta interacted the most as a kid. 

Her mouth turns upside down as she dips herself further in the water, hiding the grimace under it. Summoning Vegeta, in her thoughts, also reminded her of the alleged marriage, his excessive reaction and her lack thereof. She's not going to be bound to a random man, even though she's curious to know who the mysterious suitor might be. Among these thoughts, on the forefront, still lies the total disregard they all had for her role in the family or even her opinion. That makes her blood boil. Once again, the commotion stirred by that pompous know-it-all stole her thunder. 

"Asshole," she murmurs, drifting backwards to let her shoulders rest against the petrous ridge of the tub. The water is scalding against her sore muscles, her skin is flushing a dark shade of pink because of that. 

There's so much confusion in her head, and dealing with whatever, at this moment, is proving to be useless. There's still too much frustration and anxiety left on her shoulders. Plus, she didn't sleep a wink last night, musing about her father's words, her mother's words… and Vegeta's words. 

There's too much at stake, and she doesn't want to deal with it half-assedly. Thus, for now, she must try to shut it out and cool her head.

Through half-mast lids, her eyes fall again on the grandiosity of the garden in full bloom. She's not sure of recognizing most of the plants decorating it. There's something that resembles a lily jutting in the tub, its glossy, white flowers bask and glisten in the afternoon glow. Farther ahead, shrubs of tropical ferns tickle at her half emerged foot. She pokes at the leaves with her big toe and stretches in the water, letting the hot liquid slosh and lap at her sides. A pleasurable layer of steam embraces her and slowly, her body relaxes.

Minutes tick by, and too soon, the tepor around her has chilled away. All the hairs on her nape are goosed up. A murmur leaves her lips. Something is irking her, but she can't put her finger on _what_. It's a strange feeling like her whole body feels numb and cold, but her face is hot, prickling actually… _stinging._

A sensation of nausea hits the pits of her stomach, sudden, like a seasonal virus. She needs to vomit. 

Her eyes snap open. _When did she close them?_ The sensation of occlusion grows excruciating and so does the prickling sensation on her face. It's all foggy, the sounds are distorted around her. A cacophony of voices and buzzing in the wake. It's too late to block whatever is coming up from her throat; she spits it out, feeling her lungs gaping open and longing for air.

In the corner of her vision, the blurred image of a shadow moves away suddenly from her. She blinks horrified, anxiety, and pressure well up in her eyes, mixing with droplets of water. She wants to talk, but she can just inhale, famished for air. Fear takes over, she wants to get up, her limbs flail to find support. 

She finds it slick and sturdy under her nails. 

"Up…"

"... wake the fuck up!" 

The echo in her ears finally becomes clear, as clear becomes the stinging sensation pulsating on her left cheek. 

She can just stare. Confused. Stare at Vegeta, at her whitened fingers digging in the skin of his pecs. She lifts her hand on her cheek, finally raising her gaze on his. He's angry. His bushy, black eyebrows are furled… she has never seen them so furled. 

"Are you stupid?!" His voice resounds all around, bumping against the dome that protects the garden like in a stadium. He's slurring again.

"Vegeta? What…" She squeezes her eyes, her head hurts. 

"If you want to commit suicide, don't do it in my fucking bathtub!" 

He's making no sense. Suicide? His bathtub? She was just taking a dip in the communal bathhouse. 

But then, something strikes her. The way he's breathing: laboured. He's soaked from head to toe… and…

"Was I drowning?" It shouldn't really be a question. She must have fallen asleep in the tub. It's not the first time it happens. 

"What do you say?" He jerks his chin downward, inviting her to look at the big picture. The sarcasm in his voice awakens the dormant sentries in her skull, a shiver of anger climbs up and down her spine. 

But at the same time, a fast slip of her eyes in the suggested direction activates a new kind of alarm. She's sitting on the stark ground, buck naked… and so is… he.

Her hands, firmly placed on his chest, fall down awkwardly. Not too fast, because she can't let him know that she's embarrassed to unearthly levels, so it's a sort of slow-motion pull away.

"W…" she clears her throat, feigning total disinterest for the situation at hand. "What do you mean with _'my bathtub'_ anyway? This is a communal space." 

"I am the only one who has used it in the past twenty years." He remarks, but his timbre seems smaller now. She sneaks him a fast glance, noticing - and grateful for it - that he's looking away. "Put something on."

"You saw everything already." It's useless, she can't help but throw him spineless jabs, even when the moment is the least appropriate one. Her face is on fire. 

It's awkward. Now that the cat is out of the bag none of them can move a step away, whilst normally one would run for his life in this kind of predicament. She has no problems standing up like her mom has made her in front of him, the problem is not her nakedness… but _his_ lack of clothes. And her pride. And his pride.

However, she has no arrows to her bow. She can't be angry at him while all he did was walk in a place that's usually deserted. And she can't yell at him because he basically saved her skin. 

But wait…

She can feel her whole body going rigid. Her eyes are still on him.

"You haven't CPR'd me, have you?" Because he must have in order to make her vomit water. He won't meet her gaze at first, but then, probably feeling her attention on him, he gives in. 

The expression she meets with is, in a word… _smoldering._ Liquid petroleum that's surprisingly poignant and… overwhelming. Now, now she feels over-conscious of her body, of her nakedness and of the carnal attractiveness it exudes. She's no modest woman. She knows all her strong points and the effect she has on men. 

But it never occurred to her that Vegeta was a _man too._ She's never thought of him as one. As an eyesore, yes. A hellish creature, of course. The usurper of her throne, most certainly.

But just a man… _never._

And as a man, feeling her wet lips on his, seeing her naked, being in the same room without anybody around… must look like a… chance. She shies away, covering her chest with her arms.

"Why did you react that way yesterday?" This is no place for this kind of question, and she knows it. But it's also the only way to corner him. He cannot escape if he feels like he'd be losing doing so.

But her calculus this time is erroneous.

"I don't know what you're talking about." His voice grows cold again, formal, distant. "Don't let trivialities lead you on. It'd be a mistake." 

Lead... her...on? 

What a conceited piece of…

When she turns around again, seething with anger, he's standing up. And when he gives her his back, it's when it occurs to her… that maybe, their eternal feud had lived in her head all along. For all this time… she may have been the only one openly challenging him. And one side of her is… disappointed.

All the self-consciousness she was feeling, suddenly withers away. No. Of course he is not a man. 

As she will never be a woman in his eyes. Just… a tool. 

She can't bring herself to ask the next question, because the response would be obvious.

Why didn't you just let me die?

Common sense. Duty. His name.

"Be more careful. I'm tired of righting your wrongs." 

It's always like this. He's always like this. It's as if… he enjoys being hated. 

"Then… stop doing it. I told you already that I don't need a caregiver." She doesn't stand up, her body is trembling, and stopping it is impossible right now.

"It's my duty as the future head of the family." This, he knows, he knows will rip her heart apart. Why doesn't he just shut the fuck up? 

Why doesn't he just…

Why…

"You're not the head of the family…" _that was my place. You stole it. It's my duty, not yours,_ "not in my eyes." 

"It's not for you to decide. I'll leave, grab your clothes and get out as soon as you're done." While he walks away, another version of herself would surely stand up and grab his arm, force him to turn around and shout in his face what she's trying to swallow down.

_Why are you trying so hard to make me loathe you, Vegeta?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Rogue_1102 and Ruthlesscupcake for their precious beta help 💞
> 
> Also, the next chapter will be Vegeta's POV. 😏


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For this fic I always use [this song](https://youtu.be/GFQYaoiIFh8) as a background. Highly suggested while reading this specific chapter ;)

"...selling, Mr. Briefs, is in the best interest of your employees. You will certainly understand that, at the present time, your financial resources can barely liquidate half of your prior personnel. That wouldn't be a problem if you didn't refuse to forego some familial assets-" 

"That's out of the question. I'd rather sell my body than give up my family heirlooms." 

"Your son might want to persuade you. Isn’t that right, Mr. Vegeta? 

It's like living a lucid dream, his life, all of it. Even though he's present in the room, sitting at that same table and perfectly aware of what is going on, his mind is adrift. He doesn't care. Doesn't give a rat's ass about the company, the conversation or convincing this man that clinging to nostalgic trivialities won't bring back his empire. 

His gaze moves away from the window and turns slantwise, cutting to the nordic, trussed-up woman sitting across them. "Supposedly, you should be quite used to tricking your clients into eating out of your hand. Why you are asking me to do your job, is beyond me." 

It doesn't seem possible that those cold, glacial eyes could be able to convey contempt in such an expressive way; However they do. She's probably striving not to bite back, and on the contrary, she carves a small, acuminate smile on her mouth and puts both her hands on the table, as if trying to smooth out invisible creases. "I see. I am done for today then. Please contact me if you need further consultation." 

She stands up, and he can sort of see through her trying to conceal her rough edges behind a gracious façade. Too bad he knows that pattern too well. 

Once she leaves the room, all he can feel is the weight of his _patron_ 's gaze on him. Vegeta doesn't look at him, not directly, but through the glass of the window. The old man's silence speaks without voice and, thus, he must respond. "I don't have reasons to do as she says. If living in the past is your way to cope for this loss… that's not my problem. There are other ways to turn around the subject." 

"You are a pragmatic kid… no, you've turned into a fine man and I'm sure I did the right thing when I appointed you as my successor. However, my son, I'm worried for you as a person. You seem to live solely to repay a debt you think you own me. I would want you to consider me as a…"

All his body tenses up, the disgusting sensation that he's trying, once again, to give him whatever sort of compassion prompts his body to suddenly step toward the window. 

"I will see that we find a new financial source that allows us to retribute our employees," his fingers find the windowsill and run on its surface, gathering dust on the tip of his finger. The lack of personnel in this house is as obvious as these people trying to feed him pity. "You have a meeting soon. Leave the paperwork to me." 

The man behind him sighs heavily. "Hopefully, someday you'll be ready to talk about this." That seems to be his closing line and, as the man steps away, Vegeta’s shoulders start to relax again.

"Actually, I was a bit happy the other day." 

The unexpected continuation freezes his loosening up mid-way. The line of his jaw hardens up like marble.

"You never lashed back in all this time. You know, it made my heart jump a bit with exhilaration." The old man laughs, a reaction he'll never understand. 

"I was tired. It won't happen again," is his clipped response. 

"Too bad." His patron is still laughing when the door shrieks closed behind him _, "I could get used to that._ " 

Just having this kind of conversations tires him out. Vegeta finds himself leaning in forward, resting his forehead against the cool glass of the window. Carrying on with a life that he didn't ask for, that is not gratitude, but mere duty. Through the reflection he sees in front of him the kid who was basically sold out like low worth merchandise. That kid still stares back at him, reminding him every day how his life has never and will never truly belong to him. 

The skin around his nose crumples up. _You owe your existence to your name._ It's something that echoes constantly in his mind, a voice that never shuts up. _If it wasn't for that bastard of a natural father, that didn't make it to disown you_ , _you'd be off in the streets._

_Criminal._

_Criminal._

_Criminal._

Every time he closes his eyes, the same scene replays in the back of the lids. That head cracking like an egg against a wall, staining it red, and that red flowing down, dripping on the ground, circling his bare feet…

He breathes in. Even though it's not necessary anymore. What in the past were nightmares, nightmares that woke him and made him scream in the night, now are part of a routine. A routine of trivial breathing and accomplishing tasks. 

When his eyes reopen, they meet rain. Rain that twists the world outside, matching him in more ways than one. Still, across the dimmed glass, he latches onto the only clear thing his eyes can see. She is running in the garden, like a pitiful kid. It's a scene he's seen a thousand times. She seems to like water, the outside and lacking shoes. He cannot make out her face properly, but he can tell it's different from yesterday. She must not hold the same expression she has when she looks at him. 

She's capable of many expressions. 

There's still that lingering image at the forefront of his mind, of dangerous curves and wet hair. 

_Why did you react that way yesterday?_

He lets out a nasal sneer. It slipped. He slipped. And slipping made her notice the wrongness in his attitude. 

It's not explainable why. It's just that his eyes have been following the unnatural color of her hair since the day he stepped foot in that house. Every year, every day. Like now. It's like she perennially walks on a stage, all the lights are on her. And the more she wants to stand out, the more he wants to hide her. 

There's something in that woman, and even before that, in the kid she was… something that moved and still moves time faster. A time that usually for him ticks too slow, nauseatingly so, when she enters a room, it suddenly skips to fast forward. 

And it's almost as if his body moves on his own, following an invisible trail when he hastily descends the main stairway and skips a few steps in the run to go faster. He jumps the last three, breathless, _but impeccably_ slows down just when the porch that faces the garden comes in sight. With his index finger he loosens the knot of his necktie, adjusting the pace of his gait to make it look like he was just passing by.

She's crouching under the big tree in the garden, her back to him. What in the world is that woman doing under the rain, like that, is beyond him… but she's soaked from head to toe. And the sight brings back the picture of her bare body, of her glistening cupid bow waiting just to be ravished. Of the taste of her mouth. The salacious curve of her breasts…

Swallowing, he enters the garden, slipping out of his jacket and rolling it up against his chest. 

She doesn't seem to have noticed his presence yet. Once he's close enough, with a fluid motion he flaps out the coat.

What he didn't expect is too see it fly back at him, slapped away by a ready hand.

She turns over her shoulder, glaring at him; rivulets of water drip from the tip of her nose. "You're becoming predictable." 

A strange heat swells up in his chest, boiling up to the neck and flaring on his cheeks. It's slipping again, his decorum. Pent up ire makes his shoulders tremble, his arms, even the hands skillfully hidden beneath the jacket. However, he's trained enough not to let any of that show, and, tilting his chin upwards he angles it so that his eyes are staring at her in judgement. 

She feels the pressure of that, he knows it. He needs no words to tell her what she loathes the most. 

"Did you come out from your secret cave just to act out your gentlemanly bullism? 'Cause I don't really need that rig--"

He tosses his jacket on her head, and she stands up abruptly turning around and fuming like a pot. 

He's faster than she is and, whilst she's busy shrugging the cloth away from her face, he steps forward and pushes her against the trunk of the tree. 

It doesn't seem to matter if she freed herself. Right now, they're just one step away from each other. Close enough that he can see himself reflected in her wide, disconcerted eyes. "You're always like this…" she murmurs, her voice so low he can barely hear it over the pit patting rain. Never, before him, does that frown on her face disappear. Even when she's surprised, she always seems to strain her features to convey hatred.

"My actions are the result of yours." It's not cold outside, but even so, their breathes mingle in puffs of hot mist. 

"I never asked you to _right my wrongs,_ just to quote you. Aren't you taking this too far, Vegeta?" This time, unlikely every other time, he spots no indecisiveness in her approach. She's pulling all her stops, openly defying him, and it's just when her mouth curls into a taunting curve… the hint of a smirk he's not seen in years, that his lungs stop working at once. "Do you think I'll give up on my place as the head of the house if you treat me like a rag? Do you think I'll back out? I'll become your servant or what? What do you gain playing the perfect brother to someone you don't even know? You enjoy it, right? Being loathed so…" 

His fingers curl, digging into the wood until it chips apart. It comes out willingly, straight out from the depths of his chest, it's just two words that tumble out of his throat with utmost satisfaction: 

"I do." 

And this seems to throw her aback again, so much that she backs up against the tree, seeming to want to escape her momentaneous confinement.

"You...do?" She repeats, that sagacious smirk falls off, replaced by a slight parting of her lips. 

"This way…" he lets her see what's behind his mask, revealing what, for too long, he has concealed behind false duty and sloppy concern. "This way I'm sure that no matter what, your head will always be filled with the thoughts of me. _Nobody else_." 

"…" she swallows, and suddenly it's much more harder to keep his gaze on hers. Probably, it's what's she thinking too, because her focus too, keeps bouncing between his lips and his eyes. 

He inches forward. But she turns away. "Don't even _think_ about it." 

Again, that sensation, heat that radiates to his chest. He knew. He knew already she'd reject him. Even so, he cannot help the tension from growing in his jaw.

She bends and slips out from his prison of flesh, leaving him against the tree, with his head tilted forward and seething. 

"In your cat and mouse game, you probably forgot to consider a relevant detail: _I have a will."_

In the distance, his patron calls his name. 

"You should go." She says, and at that he turns over, just to watch her profile from under the line of his stretched out arm. 

He does. Detaching from the trunk and picking up the jacket previously fallen on the wet grass. 

The rain has stopped.

"Don't forget what I said." It's all he says, before taking off.

\---

All of him is still shaking inside when he sets foot in the house again. Shaking with unreleased frustration that tightens his pants on the crotch and shaking of _anger_. Water trickles down his sodden clothes, the sound of gnacking shoes on the floor accompanies his rigid stride toward the main studio. This feeling of _defeat_ … is something that has never remotely touched him before. Not even grazed. 

One side of him knew it was going to end up like this but the other, _the other was sure, when she started reciprocating that flicker of gazes,_ that she'd give in. 

On the contrary…

When he enters the room, his façade is not the one he wanted to show to that old man. In fact, he stares at him befuddled. The same expression she had just a few minutes ago.

He loathes how every component of this family owns something of that woman. Everyone but him. _But him._

His patron is holding the receiver of a phone in one hand, the other is covering the speaker to keep the interlocutor from hearing external exchanges. 

Vegeta barely glances at it and then, back at the old man. 

"It's the president of the _Matcha_ company…" the other says, "they want to meet you and Bulma." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to Amartbee for drawing the main scene of this chapter ;)
> 
>   
> 


	6. Chapter 6

The ugly, black circles under her eyes tell the sad story of how she spent the last night, tossing and turning and gripping at her chest aflame with anger and embarrassment.

Usually, she wouldn't hide it, especially in the face of their upcoming encounter with the Matcha entrepreneurs. However, there's _him,_ the dapper antichrist whose words grappled and droned in her head all night long, like a swarm of bees buzzing his name _: Vegeta_. She doesn't want him to know that he's the reason behind her panda eyes and sour mood. That would exhilarate him.

He said so himself. 

On the other side, there's her company. Not his, _hers!_ Which is her life, and something she doesn't want and can't see drowning in an ocean of debts, torn to shreds by financial sharks. In this game she's the golden goose. While a marriage of convenience would probably close the gap between them and bankruptcy, it would also just open a sinkhole in her pride. This battle is between her and Vegeta, she doesn't need additional eyesores throwing up roadblocks on her path. 

For that reason, she accepted the meeting, so she can rip them apart from the inside. However, there's still that one black pawn on her chessboard she can't knock off the table. Still _him._ The man sitting behind her in the car, a car she's driving, because of course his lordship gets carried around in gold palanquins, heaven forbid that he gets a driving license.

They haven't really interacted since yesterday, and they won't. Because she can't look at him in the eyes, and he is purposely ignoring her. She doesn't care why. As long as they act like perfect strangers, she will have the upper hand in this negotiation.

The Matcha's villa is just two hours away from the city. From her research and the documents handed by her dad, they are new riches. People born as farmers that wormed their way in the food-processing industry with innovative products, such as their _millefeuille loose tea_ , a winning blend of variegated leaves that made their brand famous worldwide. Accompanied by a cat-shaped robot specifically created to allow customers to mix said leaves and create numerous combinations according to one's taste. And that's where Capsule Corporation comes in handy for a possible fusion.

The son of the newbie magnate, the infamous shy boy who set his eyes on her, is also the inventor of the robocat. He seems to have a fair knack for tech, which makes Bulma's nose crinkle in distaste. Oh, please! Everyone knows _where_ that guy _stole_ the idea. She invented the prototype when she was ten. But of course, as each and every one of her projects, some disgusting leech that previously worked for her must-have sold the idea a long time ago. But that has been her fault, for being so easygoing and trusting with everyone.

From time to time, when she glances at the rear mirror to check for crazy drivers, her gaze meets Vegeta's and it's like making eye contact with the incarnation of nightmares. He looks at her, it's obvious. Like yesterday, with an agitation that speaks of wicked desires and promises that he'll satisfy, no matter the cost.

That split second is enough to make her want to look away. It's too alien a concept to metabolize. That under the disguise made of condescending cynicism and compulsory discipline might be someone else, someone raw and earthy, and twisted in a way that makes her bones rattle beneath her skin.

He tried to kiss her.

He wants her.

Wants her in a way that seems to verge on obsession. 

When did their nonexistent relationship made of silent backstabbing and reciprocal aversion, turn into something like this?

She inhales slowly, trying to focus on the street and the night settling on it. The lampposts on the roadside and their warm, orange glow, are becoming fewer and fewer, a sign that they're close to their destination. 

Tires crunch on the gravel path and the silent swish of silk being pulled off, goose up the hairs on her neck. Skittish, she glances at the rearview mirror again, noticing that Vegeta has loosened the knot of his tie. His posture, all of it, has changed from their departure. It's strangely relaxed, light years away from his usual straightened up way of sitting. 

She ignores him. He's provoking her. 

Just when she pulls the brake and the car stops in the vast parking lot that precedes the villa, Bulma can finally exhale. This can't be her mood every time she's alone with him. It's like she's expecting him to jump on her as soon as light leaves the horizon. Which is ridiculous. She has to calm down and think smart. He's not going to do anything that she doesn't want. Otherwise he wouldn't have hesitated a second stealing her lips when she refused him. 

He wants her to want him. _That much_ is unequivocal. 

And he must be missing some brain cells if he thinks she is one of those cheap chicks that would fall at his feet just because he got trained to be the prince charming _he's not._ What woman right in her mind, would want to be with a patronizing man that pretends to set the agenda of her whole life? This is ridiculous. He already stole everything from her. Like hell will she ever surrender her _freedom_ to him!

Her tennis shoes stomp on the gravel, kicking some pebble in the process. She didn't even bother wearing heels tonight, nor one of her ugly dresses. She can't walk on pumps without looking like a crippled Barbie anyway, plus, strangling her tits and ass into some slutty tube dress won't make her point. She isn't here to play the sex bomb but to set one.

Vegeta follows in silence, she can barely hear the sound of his unbothered steps behind her. And the fact that he's calm makes her twice as irritated. But also gives her some pause. It's odd that he didn't reproach her on her poor stylistic choice. Adding, as usual, how her bad choices reflect on the company or crap like that. 

She doesn't look at him until he flanks her, hands in his pockets. She quirks a brow, throwing him a slantwise glance to study his face. 

But he slips away and steps ahead before she can discern his real intentions, placing himself right in front of the door. 

They must have close circuit cameras because the moment Vegeta sets foot in the foyer, a rampant man, the age of her father, appears right in front of him, opening the door as if on cue. 

"Welcome, welcome!" He's a fat, quirky old man with long, silvery hair tied back in a loose ponytail. Dressed like a mix between a cowboy and a lumberjack. His smile is easy, and his hand big when it pats on Vegeta's shoulder as if he were his son. 

She feels both astounded and satisfied. Surprised by the quirky man and his easy-going personality and satisfied by Vegeta's uncomfortable stepping back. This is clearly _not_ the court he expected to play in, which makes the ball fall into _hers_. 

Therefore she takes his place, putting on her most cheerful and charming smile. Takes his sturdy hand and shakes it enthusiastically. 

"Oh, ohh." He laughs kinda like Santa, "You must be Ms. Brief! Damn girl, you got one hell of a strong shake. I like that in a woman." She doesn't grimace at him because she knows what her current position is in this story. This man is a fucking chauvinist. She'd gladly spit in his face, but instead, she winks at him. 

"Hopefully you don't _do_ business with all the women with a strong handshake." 

He laughs, but his attention moves on Vegeta again. It makes her seethe. "Come in kids, I organized a little party for us all."

\--- 

His little party involves at least a thousand people. _Smart move_ , Bulma thinks, in that way he'd have enough witnesses just in case they try to manipulate whatever is the contract he has laid out for them.

They're not hapless idiots, but she expected no less from a family who climbed the social stairway in a couple of years. Vegeta didn't speak yet, he's all nods, uncomfortably tucked under the arm of the Matcha's CEO. But she didn't miss how his eyes scan his surroundings whilst he listens to the other man. 

She detests to admit it, but she knows that the moment Vegeta opens his mouth, the fatso will be eating straight out of his hand. He's been trained all his life to cover _her_ position.

"Forgive me just a second, I'm going to get that coward son of mine. His legs turn all jelly when he knows a beautiful lady is in the house. Go, eat, dance… have fun!" 

Well, way to make his son all the more desirable. 

She can't wait to meet this _Adonis of a man_ , in the meantime, she will haunt for some alcohol, because it looks like she will be in dire need of some.

They part ways for a while, she and Vegeta and she exploits the moment to enjoy the delicacies spread out on finely embroidered tablecloths in various parts of the salon. They sure worked hard to make this 'little party' look like no expense was spared. But she is not easily impressed, her mother creates new debts every fifteen days to reach the same result. But the Tarte Tatins are lovely, and her growling stomach is thankful for these.

She ends up chattering with various guests, some of them she already knows, others are new, but their names are still worth ending up on her agenda for reasons. She catches Vegeta no longer after, casually leaning against a window with a glass of red wine in his hand. He's watching her. She had noticed the weight of his gaze already but had feigned not to. The way he looks at her is starting to make her feel uneasy. 

Fortunately or unfortunately, their game of glances is interrupted by the arrival of the CEO and his prodigal son. The jazzy tune in the background switches to softer tones when they appear in the salon. 

She sips her wine, assessing the young scion with mild interest. He's not bad. Actually, he would be cute even with shorter hair. But the fact that he's sporting the same, identical hairdo of his old man, kind of throws her back. He's not looking up, actually, yes, once, but as soon as he intercepts her, his cheeks flush scarlet, and his shoes acquire renewed interest.

She would have fallen head over heels for someone like him… when she was sixteen. She smiles though, at his antics, hiding her amusement behind the glass.

Until the unmistakable flame-shaped hair of her adopted brother breaches her field of vision, the only sound that announces him is the wailing of someone behind her. Did he just elbow a guest in the fucking ribs in order to step in front of her?

Vegeta? The very _grace_ incarnated?

Both the son and the man don't seem to notice his forceful self-insert. But she did, and that irks to no end. 

"What do you think you're doing?" Her whisper is more a mix between a snarl and a sneer than a question.

"My line, exactly. I'm doing business, you're shamelessly flirting with every idiot in the room."

What the fucking fuck? _Flirting_? "Listen, you-"

"There you are! Sorry if it took forever, but this young boy here is hard to find out when he hides from beauts."

"Father!" 

"Is this the _man_ you designed to succeed your company?" Vegeta's tone, in his question, is apparently formal and disinterested, but she can hear the clear hint of sarcasm in it. What the hell is he doing?

The other young man has noticed too, because his jaw tensed up in a hard block of bones. His gaze is up and fiery now, all on Vegeta.

"Yes, I am." He steps forward, puffing out his chest, probably incensed by the implied mockery. And stretches out his hand. "Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Briefs."

Vegeta takes it, and judging from the pained expression on the other man's face, his grip must be all but weak.

Bulma downs her wine and slams the glass on a nearby table. She casually steps on Vegeta's foot, forcing him to move aside.

"And I'm Bulma." She forces a smile on her wine-tinted lips and grabs Yamcha's hand to shake it as well.

But the man recoils almost comically, staggering backwards and knocking off a tray. "P-pleased…" 

This is worse than she thought. In no way can she talk this man into a serious business, he's utterly frightened of her. Not just normally shy. 

"Look at my boy, you already made him fall head over heels for you once, Ms. Bulma, but now you literally knocked him over!" 

She doesn't understand how a father can ridicule his son like this in front of a crowd of people and laugh at his own, sad jokes. But the young future CEO doesn't seem to feel humiliated by it or at least doesn't show it. "I-I'm sorry. I'm a bit awkward around…" he clears his throat, adjusting his soiree attire, "around women." 

She can hear the distinctive rumor of glass cracking next to her, followed by Vegeta's voice, which sounds everything but entertained by the show.

"I understand that our meeting won't be held tonight, since I'm not particularly fond of _circuses_ , I'd like to be shown to my room. I'm tired."

The air around chills again, and Yamcha, or whatever is the man's name, definitely dropped all pretense and is now openly glaring at Vegeta.

"Sure, m'boy. I'll call my pretty wife and tell her to show you guys to your rooms. Yer gonna like-"

" _Rooms_?" Vegeta's contemptuous sniff is _not_ what makes her almost choke on her own saliva, but the _cocksure, defiant smirk_ that follows. 

The bulky man, who was about to comply with his guest's request, stops in his tracks, and turns over. "Yeah, boy. Is there a problem? Don't cha want to spend the night?"

"One room will be more than enough."

Bulma's eyes literally bulge out of their sockets.

Is he fucking drunk?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Ruthlesscupcake, as usual, for betaing the chapter ❤️

**Author's Note:**

> I always invite whoever reads to drop their impression. Confrontation is very relevant. 💕


End file.
